


lay all your love on me

by MooseFeels



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Consent Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sex, Sex Pollen, happy ending I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2018-12-08 10:03:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11644236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: Viktor knows from how Yuuri says his name that he needs him; that something is wrong.





	1. i beg you dear

“ _ Vitya _ ,” Yuuri moans through the doorway, and Viktor feels his stomach drop and his heart leap into his throat and a terrifying wave of nausea sweep through him. 

Yuuri’s voice cracks; he sounds scared and unsteady.

Viktor falls out of bed and onto the floor;  _ hard _ . He stumbles up and crashes through the room and pulls the door open and Yuuri stands there with his skin flushed too red, too radiant. He’s dewy with sweat, and his eyes are wide, pupils blown out overbig and dark. His eyes dance, as if having trouble focusing, and his body jitters in space. His hands wander, up and down his sides, clenching and grasping at the material of his clothing. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, reaching for him, but Yuuri  _ flinches _ away, hard and scared. “Yuuri, what’s wrong?”

“I feel-- I feel wrong,” he says. “ _ Bad _ . Hot?” He swallows, thickly. “Don’t-- don’t wanna be alone.”

“Yuuri, Of course,” Viktor answers, and he steps aside and Yuuri clumsily vibrates into the room, collapsing against a wall. 

He stays standing but his hand rests over his chest, rubbing a hard pattern over his pulse point. His breathing is rich and overlapping, loud in the room and strange.

“Something. Happened,” Yuuri pants. “Man at the bar? Wouldn’t--” He starts in Japanese and it takes Viktor a moment to catch up when he pieces it together.

“Aggressive?” Viktor asks in careful English. 

Yuuri nods a few times. His eyes clench shut and he says, “Wouldn’t leave me alone,” he continues, in English. “Went back here. Felt bad. Needed-- needed you.”

Viktor feels that  _ plummeting _ feeling again. He didn’t think-- it’s not as common here as it is in St. Petersburg, and very harshly prosecuted. Still. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor says. “Can you take a shower for me?”

Yuuri looks at him and his eyes look lost but trusting. He nods a few times and he carefully unsticks himself from the wall and Viktor watches him stumble, slipfooted and graceless, into the bathroom. 

Viktor swallows. Barely contains his panic.

“Yuuri,” he calls, before he shuts the door. 

Yuuri turns, whole body, to look at him. 

“Don’t touch your clothes, okay?” He says. “Just take them off and then put on the robe.”

Yuuri nods. Messily. 

“I’ll remind you when the water turns off, okay?” Viktor says. 

Yuuri nods, again. 

Yuuri closes the door, and after a moment he hears the water turn on, and he immediately grabs his phone and messages Chris.

_ What did you do, _ Chris replies, immediately after Viktor sends off  _ HELP! _

Viktor dials his number, and Chris picks up on the first ring.

“You know that stuff, that powder? That people in all those clubs in Geneva got hit with?” Viktor asks.

“Go to the hospital,” Chris says, his voice stern. 

“It’s not me,” Viktor says. 

“Take him to the hospital,” Chris replies. 

“Okay, thanks Chris,” Viktor says.

He hangs up and finds his shoes and a pair of slippers for Yuuri. Grabs his phone and his keys and when he hears the water turn off, he calls, “Just put the robe on, remember!”   
And there’s a brief moment and the door opens and Yuuri’s hair is soaked, completely untoweled and stuck to his head. He’s wearing the robe but it something about it seems off. He’s flushed, still, and his eyes look glassy. Still jittering and shaking. 

“Vitya, I feel strange,” Yuuri says, slowly. Carefully. 

“Yuuri,” VIktor says. “Do you remember, a few years ago? There was a problem with people in bars being-- being exposed to something? And it-- well, it--”   
Yuuri starts shaking his head, and muscle jumps in his jaw as he clenches his teeth. 

“Yuuri, we need to take you to a hospital and--”   
Yuuri shakes his head even more aggressively, his eyes crashing shut. 

“Just a bad reaction to something I drank,” he says. “Don’t-- Ma and-- I can’t--”   
“Yuuri,” Viktor says. “What if you get dehydrated or--”   
“Please,” Yuuri says. “ _ Please _ . Please-- they’ll--” Yuuri’s hand curls and kneads the robe. “Everyone would  _ know _ .”

Viktor feels his heart in his throat. The lobby is packed with reporters and there’s no good door out. He doesn’t have enough of a grasp of Czech to ask the hotel staff for a discreet exit. The options are to either hail a cab or take an ambulance, and both are so hideously public. 

“Yuuri--”   
“ _ Please _ , Vitya,” Yuuri says. Yuuri  _ begs _ . He swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Please. Everyone. Everyone would know.”

“Let me make a phone call,” Viktor says. “Okay? Sit on the bed for a moment and I’ll be right back.”

And Viktor lets Yuuri sway to the bed and he slips out into the hallway and redial Chris.

“What,” Chris answers the phone.

“He won’t go,” Viktor says. 

“ _ What _ ?” Chris hisses.

“He doesn’t want to go to the hospital,” VIktor elaborates, practically whispering into the phone.

“Well, that sounds  _ tragic _ but he sounds like he’s old enough is wants won’t hurt him, Viktor,” 

“The media,” Viktor says. “ _ And _ the other skaters.”

Chris sighs. 

“Fuck,” he says. “Shit. When this happened to me--”   
“This happened to  _ you? _ ” Viktor hisses. 

“It did  _ not _ as far as everyone else knows,” Chris replies. “But when this happened to me, Andre stuck around with gatorade and a  _ lot _ of porn. Stuff to make the fever go down, too, I guess.”

Viktor sighs, heavily. “Chris--”

“Your smartest option is hospital,” Chris says. “But if he won’t go, the other choice is gatorade and porn and tipping the hotel staff royally. And fucking tylenol.”

“Shit,” Viktor mutters, and he hangs up and he takes a deep breath and goes back into the room. 

Viktor steps back into the room.

Yuuri sits on the bed with his hands buried in his hair. His shoulders are brought up tight around his ears and his spine is rigid.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, trying to keep his voice calm. “How are you feeling?”   
Yuuri doesn’t say anything, but he does groan, high pitched and tortured. 

“I got some advice,” he says. “I still think...I really, really think you should go to the hospital. But-- I understand. I’m going to get gatorade and we’ll ride it out, okay Yuuri? It shouldn’t last longer than eighteen hours or so, okay?”   
Yuuri starts, looks up at him, and his eyes are still blown too-big, but now they are ringed by redness, by tears. 

“ _ Please _ don’t go,” Yuuri says, his voice cracking. 

“Okay,” Viktor says. “I’m going to see what the hotel can send us, then. You just-- try to get comfortable for a second? I promise I’m not leaving I just want to make sure I can best take care of you.”   
Yuuri nods again, jerky and unsettled. 

“Might-- gonna--” He gets up and rushes over to the bathroom, slams the door shut. 

Viktor hears him begin to vomit, and he wipes a hand over his face.

He checks the minifridge and sighs. Dials the desk.

“This is Nikiforov, in room 448,” he says, to the concierge. “I need gatorade. Several bottles of it. A lot of it.”   
There’s a pause. “Mr. Nikiforov,” the concierge starts--

“I’m willing to pay  _ and tip _ outrageously,” he says. “My-- my friend is very ill and I can’t leave.”

“Of course, Mr. Nikiforov,” the concierge continues. “We’ll see what we can do.”   
Viktor hangs up and he runs his hands through his hair. Scratches over his scalp. 

He looks at Yuuri’s bed and he looks at his. 

He strips away the comforter and top sheet for both of them; fold them up and put them in the drawers by the bed. He pulls up the hotel pay-per-view channel and  _ sighs _ . Thank god these places tend to be discreet-- and thank  _ god _ Viktor has the money to make  _ sure _ . 

“ _ Viktor? _ ” he hears, quietly, from the bathroom.

Viktor rushes over and knocks on the door. 

“ _ Come in, _ ” Yuuri replies.

Viktor opens the door and Yuuri is sitting in front of the toilet, clutching the bowl. The robe has slipped around his shoulders. The toilet is empty but Yuuri wipes at the edge of his mouth with a square of toilet tissue. 

“Do you need help?” Viktor asks. 

Yuuri nods. “Tried...got dizzy,” he says. 

He looks feverish. He  _ feels _ feverish when he stumbles into Viktor’s side, where he clutches his arm. 

“It’s getting  _ worse _ ,” Yuuri says. 

Viktor guides him over to his bed and Viktor pulls out a bottle of ibuprofen from his bag. He shakes out two and pours a glass of water, and Yuuri looks at the pills like they’re a foreign concept for a long moment, before Viktor says, “You’re feverish. This will help.”

Yuuri nods, messily, before taking them and drinking the water. The whole glass. 

He burps and then shakes his head, grimacing. “Still tastes like puke,” he murmurs. 

“Anything I can do?” Viktor asks. 

Yuuri shakes his head. “I-- can’t focus,” he says. “Sore from the exhibition and everything is so  _ much _ . Uh-- bright?”

Viktor nods. Switches off the television and lowers the lights so just a lamp is on. 

The robe has fallen all the way from Yuuri’s shoulders. It pools around his waist. 

His eyes are closed, again, and his hands are fisted in the material of the robe. 

“Yuuri?” Viktor asks. 

“I’m always so  _ careful _ ,” He spits. “And now-- fuck.  _ Fuck _ .”

Viktor sits down on the bed, beside him. Yuuri’s eyes are still squeezed shut.    
“This isn’t your fault, Yuuri,” Viktor says. “And it’ll all be okay. I promise you. It’ll all be okay.”

“I want you,” Yuuri says. Yuuri  _ blurts _ . It comes out like he can’t resist it anymore. “I  _ want _ you so bad and it hurts.”

Viktor leans over, across the corner of the bed between them and carefully lays his hand on Yuuri’s back. 

Yuuri seems to relax into it some. 

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” VIktor says, softly. “I did want it to  _ be _ , though, did you know that Yuuri?”

Yuuri sighs softly. Shakes his head. 

“Yuuri, yes, it’s true,” he says. He strokes Yuuri’s back. Leans in a little closer. “I was going to take you to St. Petersburg and we would see the city. You’d come back to my apartment,” he says, and his voice is low. Yuuri’s skin is warm under his hands. Soft and dewy-- whether from sweat or his shower, Viktor is unsure which.“You’d come back and maybe I’d try to make you dinner. You’d make fun of me,” he says. “And you’d laugh. And we’d laugh and then, well, we’d go back to the bedroom.”   
“ _ Vitya _ ,” Yuuri whimpers. 

Yuuri started calling him  _ Vitya _ after Barcelona. Usually he holds the word as crisply as possible, self conscious of his accent in that way only Yuuri can be self conscious. But now it softens and shifts. Not quite  _ Vitya _ but  _ Viccha.  _

Viktor doesn’t know how to tell him what it does to him. 

“I didn’t want the first time to be like this,” Viktor says. “I just-- I want you to know that.”

Yuuri takes a deep breath, his chest and shoulders rising. “I don’t...I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Viktor’s heart clenches. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Viktor says. He doesn’t know how to tell Yuuri more that this isn’t his fault, that there’s nothing to apologize for. It’s like apologizing is a default pattern for Yuuri-- Viktor growing accustomed to Yuuri’s soft voice saying,  _ sorry, sorry. Gomen, gomen.  _ A constant litany that he has to find ways through, ways into. How to get him to  _ hear  _ him through it, through the pattern. 

“I’m not going anywhere. You’re still you and I’m still me and Yuuri, it will be okay,” he says.  _ I love you _ , he doesn’t say, because despite kissing, despite falling asleep tangled up in each other, despite warm glances and held hands and long embraces, despite Yuuri holding his waist while Viktor washes dishes and despite Viktor dancing slowly with him to old records in Minako’s dance studio, they still haven’t said that.

Viktor hasn’t told someone he loved them since his mother died.

Yuuri turns and looks at him. 

His eyes are red from crying. His skin is flushed, sweaty, feverish.

“You won’t tell anyone?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor shakes his head.

Yuuri’s hands shake a little, where they reach out. He cradles Viktor’s face in his hands, as if to study him intently. His brown eyes search him. Viktor’s heart stutters.

Yuuri licks his lips, his red tongue darting out. He bites his lip as he looks at him, his dancing eyes moving from his eyes to his checks, to his own mouth. 

Yuuri is raised up from his knees. The robe has fallen away. Viktor, under Yuuri’s grasp and in his pajamas, feeling woefully overdressed.

Yuuri says something that Viktor can’t quite catch-- his words slur and reel, and Viktor is having trouble hearing over the consuming focus he has on Yuuri’s mouth.

And then Yuuri pulls him in even closer and kisses him. 

Yuuri’s mouth is hot and breathy. His tongue explores the contours of Viktor’s lips, his teeth, and then his teeth tug and pull at Viktor’s lips. He doesn’t let go but he does _ shift _ and Viktor finds himself mostly under Yuuri, pushing himself upward from the bed from his hands and his hips. The edges of Yuuri’s voice leaks around his breath, words made all of vowels and  _ desire _ .

Viktor pulls away for a moment. “Yuuri, Yuuri,” he says, and Yuuri stops, but he holds that singular, overwhelming focus on him. 

“Let me--” Viktor says, and he moves and Yuuri stays  _ basically _ in his lap, but Viktor manages to extricate himself from his shirt and Yuuri _ sighs _ with his whole body and he curls down and inward to kiss him again. To kiss him down his jaw, down his neck, to his chest. The way his kisses turn to bites, turn to bites and  _ suction _ , the way Viktor can feel Yuuri leaving bruises down him. 

Yuuri’s teeth graze his sides. They sink into him.

Viktor cries out, overwhelmed. Overjoyed.

Yuuri’s hands explore him, wrap over his sides and slide over his chest. His nails grip and scratch him, as deliciously as his nails do.

It is a symphony of feeling. It is  _ music _ .

“Yuuri,” Viktor babbles. “Yuuri, Yuuri-- Ah, my god.”

Yuuri sucks a spot as bright as a  _ star _ at Viktor’s exposed hip and Viktor feels the words that fall from his mouth instead of hear them. 

Yuuri stops for just a moment, to look at him. 

His dancing eyes wavering. 

“You sing,” he says.

Viktor smiles-- it’s a reflex. 

“I would always sing for you, Yuuri,” Viktor says. “Yuuri, can I touch you?”   
“Always touch me,” Yuuri says. 

Viktor’s hands find Yuuri’s shoulders, find his muscled body, his taut abdominals and rippling obliques. His hands drape over the curves and edges of Yuuri’s body, the places Viktor knows are hard only because of the endless  _ punishment _ that the season is, even just for exhibition skates. 

Viktor feels Yuuri and he kisses him. The parts of his chest that are pale and the lengths of his forearms that are tanned. He kisses Yuuri and Yuuri gasps and moans; he shivers; he twists.

Yuuri’s skin is saltysweaty under Viktor’s lips.

“Ah,” Viktor says, pulling away. “Yuuri, drink some water. Please.”   
Yuuri nods and Viktor pulls himself away to head to the door.

There is a bag draped over the doorknob outside. Viktor pulls it in-- three bottles of gatorade and a bill. 

Viktor thanks his stars and throws them in the minifridge. Grabs the second glass and pours more water. 

Yuuri has drained his glass and is sitting on the bed propped up on his elbows. The robe is  _ gone _ , pooled on the floor, and Yuuri is fully nude. His muscular legs are parted, his strong thighs and calves tensed. His chest heaves as he breathes, and his fingers pull the bedsheet away from the bed. His eyes are close and his head is leaned back, his neck long and exposed, glistening with sweat and flushed. His cock, hard, sprung toward his belly from his dark pubic hair; the sharp darts of his hip abductors defined and drawing Viktor’s eye downward. 

Viktor’s never seen him like this. All of him, laid out so plainly, hiding nothing. Viktor’s never seen his nudity  _ contextualized _ quite like this.

Viktor makes to the foot of the bed, and he falls to his knees, the hotel carpet biting through his sweats. He positions himself between Yuuri’s legs-- between his  _ feet _ more realistically.

Viktor takes Yuuri’s left foot and ankle in his hand. 

Yuuri’s feet and ankles are like his own. Alternately swollen and boney; calloused and blistered and bleeding. His Yuuri, who went to war. 

He kisses the interior edge of Yuuri’s left ankle and Yuuri sighs. Viktor pulls himself up and draws Yuuri’s leg up with him. Kisses down his calf, strokes up the inside of Yuuri’s thigh with the back of his nails.

Yuuri’s voice is all breath and no sound, but Viktor knows how to hear that. 

He pulls himself all the way up onto the bed, pulls Yuuri’s knees up over his shoulders, around his ears.

He strokes, with his fingers, so gently the tender space that runs from the bottom of Yuuri’s abdomen to the inner joining of his leg and pelvis, his thumbnail catching slightly on Yuuri’s coarse, dark pubic hair, brushing ever so slightly towards his balls. Yuuri’s breath hitches and speeds. His chest rises and falls. 

Viktor kisses along that joining, moving inward gradually until he reaches  where Yuuri’s cock and balls just casually  _ are _ . Viktor wraps his hand around the base of Yuuri’s cock, lets his thumb stroke up and down its length. Yuuri’s voice begins to catch on his breath again, words of just vowels. A language of sex. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, his hand wrapped over Yuuri’s cock. “Yuuri, will you fuck me?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Yuuri answers. 

Viktor smiles. 


	2. Chapter 2

-

Yuuri is celebrating is twenty first birthday in America, and Phichit has dragged him to a bar, and he’s having a good time. A nice time. He’s had two appletinis and a shot of tequila and Phichit is having an animated conversation in Thai with the bartender. And Yuuri is enjoying his drink but there’s this man-- a stranger-- and he won’t leave him alone. 

Yuuri’s tried everything. He’s tried walking away, he’s tried ignoring him, he’s tried saying no, he’s tried-- 

He’s tried everything but he won’t leave Yuuri alone and Yuuri wishes that Phichit’s conversation would wrap up so they could go to a different bar and Yuuri could  _ lose _ this guy. But the guy hangs around and Phichit keeps talking and then Yuuri--

His skin feels too tight. It itches. He feels  _ hot _ but not  _ sweaty _ ; it’s different from the feeling of the bar. And then Yuuri goes from being hot to curled in on himself, puking beside the bar.

“Yuuri!” Phichit cries, flying to his side, to take him by his arm, and to guide him outside.

Yuuri hadn’t known; no one had thought to tell him. 

And he didn’t tell Celestino and he didn’t tell his mother and he didn’t talk about it with anyone-- not even Phichit, who tried.

Yuuri doesn’t remember it, but apparently, he screamed. Yuuri just remembers that after a while, not being touched  _ hurts _ . 

And now, Yuuri is twenty-five. January, at a little exhibition skate in Prague. And Viktor is in the hotel room getting a little sleep and Yuuri is in a bar around the block grabbing a quick martini and--

And now he’s taking a shower and he’s fighting that feeling again. That itching, nauseous feeling, bubbling up under his lungs and making him swimmy-headed and overwhelmed. The water hits his skin and even though he has it turned as hot as it’ll go, it feels almost cold. It doesn’t ease that awful tightness.

Yuuri tries to  _ focus _ on something other than that dizzy, uncomfortable feeling. He tries to grab onto  _ any _ other feeling. He chases the popped blister on his toe and the bruise on his hip-- tries to chase the pain in his body, but even this  slips out from between his fingers. Yuuri swallows, thickly. His mouth fills with saliva and he swallows again. Nausea rears up, acid, in the back of his throat. He belches. 

He stands under the spray for a bit. He’s not sure  _ how _ long. Time feels weird. Everything feels weird. He grabs a bar of soap and absently washes his skin, knows that glitter and sweat peel off of him. He turns off the water and he tries to focus when he hears, as clear as bells, Viktor’s voice.

“Just put the robe on, remember!” He calls, and it is the only clear, comforting thing in this tumble of feelings. The only thing Yuuri can  _ grasp _ . Yuuri swallows and nods. He pulls on the robe and walks around the pile of clothes he’s left on the floor. He steps into the room and sits down on the bed. 

The room looks  _ strange _ . Really strange. Nothing is still. The colors are all wrong, somehow. 

“Vitya,” Yuuri says, trying his best not to slur, to sound clear and calm. “I feel strange.”

Viktor sits on the bed across from Yuuri’s. He faces him. His hair is pushed away from his face, a nervous habit of his, Yuuri knows. His eyes are wide and nervous. “Yuuri, do you remember, a few years ago? There was a problem with people in bars being,” and Viktor pauses, his lips moving as if reading the thought from a teleprompter just over Yuuri’s shoulder, composing the thought fully before he states it, “Being exposed to something? And it,” and he pauses again. He swallows. “Well, it--”

Yuuri doesn’t realize he’s reacting until Viktor pulls forward to him, just a little bit, his expression shifting. “Yuuri,” he says, quickly, “we need to take you to a hospital--”

“It’s just a bad reaction to something!” Yuuri says. He  _ can’t _ go to the hospital. He can’t.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says. 

“Please, please, please,” Yuuri says. Yuuri  _ pleads.  _ Please,  _ anything,  _ anything but people knowing. Anything. 

Anything but that. 

Everyone would know.  _ Everyone _ would know. 

Mari and Dad and  _ Mom _ . 

Yuuri has his eyes shut so tight his head starts hurting. “ _ Please _ ,” he begs. “Everyone would know.”

_ Please _ . 

Viktor says something. Yuuri can’t quite catch it. And then he steps out of the room and into the hall. 

Yuuri falls forward, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his head in his hands. He tries to focus, to hold onto anything, but his thoughts are so slippery and his body feels so strange to him, vibrating and nauseous and spinning. The pain doesn’t ground him; it spins out of him, can’t follow him. 

“Yuuri?” He hears, waiting in that quiet, terrifying space. “How do you feel?”

Yuuri groans. 

“I still really, really think you should go to the hospital,” Viktor says, almost under his breath. “I going to get gatorade and we’ll ride this out, yes? Yuuri? And it won’t be longer than eighteen hours, okay?”

Yuuri tries to focus on the rest of it but the part he can process most vividly is that Viktor is going to  _ go.  _

“ _ Please,”  _ Yuuri begs, opening his eyes to look at him. It hurt so badly, the last time. “Don’t go.”

Viktor swallows. “I’m going to see what the hotel will give us. You--be comfortable? I’m not leaving I just have to take care of you.”

Yuuri nods. His head feels disconnected from his neck at a critical point. He feels his eyes swim in their sockets and his stomach clenches wretchedly. He stumbles from the bed to the bathroom and vomits again.    
It burns his throat and his sinuses. He feels loopy and loose-headed. Like he’s in the clouds. 

He sits on the floor and reaches up to flush the toilet. He moves to arrange his limbs to heave himself upward but he can’t, not  _ quite _ . The floor falls from under him and his limbs can’t find where they’re supposed to be-- muscle soreness finally rears its head.  He reaches to the side and grabs some paper to wipe the corners of his mouth. 

He closes his eyes. “Viktor?” he calls. 

There’s a stumbling sound before a knock on the door. 

“Come in,” Yuuri answers. 

Viktor looks so tall and so lovely, standing in the doorway. He leans down to Yuuri and helps him up carefully. His skin is so wonderfully cool against Yuuri’s own. His side is so steady and his hands are so firm and soft. The feeling is an oasis. Blessedly unconfusing. Viktor is, as always, so unambiguously good. 

Viktor sits down beside him. “This isn’t your fault, Yuuri,” he says. His voice is very quiet and very steady. “It’ll all be okay. I promise.”

Steady Viktor. 

“I want you,” Yuuri says. “I want you so bad and it hurts.”

He doesn’t know how else to say it. 

Viktor leans toward him and lays his hand on his back. “I didn’t want it to be like this. But I did want this, though. You knew this, yes, Yuuri?”

Viktor is too good. Too beautiful, too giving of himself. 

“Yuuri, yes,” Viktor says, and he comes closer. So close that Yuuri can nearly feel his body beside him. He strokes up his arms and back. Yuuri can’t quite follow what he’s saying; his grasp of English comes and goes with his focus. But his voice is so nice to hear, pitched right to that tone that’s Yuuri has come to realize Viktor uses only around him. 

“Vitya,” he says, because he’s so tired. He’s so tired and this is going to hurt and this is going to be humiliating, and there’s really no way around it. 

It’s going to hurt and Yuuri can’t believe he dragged Viktor into this. Into his  _ bullshit _ , yet again. 

“I didn’t want our first time to be like this,” Viktor says. “I want you to know that.”

Yuuri feels his teeth clench involuntarily. 

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says. He knows he says it once. 

He realizes he hasn’t stopped saying it until he hears Viktor, hears his calm, soft voice tell him he’s not leaving. He’s not going anywhere. 

“Yuuri, it will be okay,” he says, and Yuuri hangs onto that. 

And Yuuri turns to look at Viktor. 

Viktor is so beautiful, even when Yuuri has unceremoniously ruined his evening. And Viktor’s eyes are so blue and his features are so finely wrought with  _ something _ , with some sort of care. 

“You won’t tell anyone?” Yuuri asks, his voice low. 

He can’t tell anyone. He can’t. 

Viktor shakes his head. 

Yuuri reaches out as carefully as he can, to study Viktor. To hold his honest expression in his hands and to look at him. To  _ see _ him. 

Yuuri licks his lips. He feels them dry immediately, body too warm. 

Yuuri looks at him, and it’s when he kisses him that things shift. It’s not that the dizziness clears; it’s that it’s subsumed by a crashing, focused wave of desire. Of  _ lust _ . Viktor, Viktor, Viktor. Viktor’s tongue in his mouth, licking against his teeth and lips. Viktor’s hands grasping at his skin. Viktor’s breath brushing against the oversensitive, blushed flesh of Yuuri’s face and mouth and lips. 

Viktor pulls away after a moment and pulls off his shirt. 

Oh,  _ Vitya _ . 

Yuuri considers Viktor’s body; his firm muscles and his clear skin, soft and smooth under Yuuri’s roving hands. Yuuri kisses Viktor and he explores Viktor’s body with his mouth as delightedly as he explores with his hands. Yuuri feels how Viktor’s skin gives under the bite and kiss. 

Viktor moves under Yuuri’s ministrations, something new of him to touch and be close to at every turn. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, his voice high and clear. “Ah! Yuuri-- Yuuri, my god!”

Yuuri stops. He looks up at him, tries to get his eyes to focus on all of him at once. He tries to-- he tries. 

But he hears Viktor’s voice in his ears and he feels his body underneath him, and all Yuuri can say is, “You sing.”

And Viktor smiles. 

Viktor has a lot of smiles, but he has one Yuuri has only seen him direct at him. Not at reporters or competitors or Yuuri’s family or people in the store. Viktor has a smile just for Yuuri. 

There’s something loose to it; something unpracticed, something Yuuri suspects Viktor has never seen himself. 

It overwhelms Yuuri. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, and Yuuri loves his voice. “I would always sing for you. Yuuri, can I touch you?”

“Always touch me,” Yuuri breathes. 

Viktors hands rove over Yuuri, leaving velvet fire all along him. It’s so much. It’s too much. Yuuri feels animal prayer in him that Viktor, that beautiful Vitya, will never stop touching him. 

Viktor pulls from him and says, calmly and firmly, “Yuuri, drink some water, please?”

Yuuri nods, and he grabs the glass from the bedside table to drink some and Viktor heads to the door to grab something. Yuuri feels his eyes flutter closed, feels the water course through him, cold and clear. 

Yuuri sighs. 

The feeling is so strange. Different from last time but also the same. It doesn’t hurt right now but there’s something unpleasant dragging against him. 

Yuuri feels the bed dip and he opens his eyes to see Viktor sitting at the foot of the bed, between his legs. 

Viktor pulls his foot and leg upward and kiss gently at the interior space of his left ankle. 

The feeling is so soft and lovely. 

Viktor strokes slowly down the interior of his leg, his touch so soft, so gentle. Barely there but so thrilling. So delicate and graceful. Different from earlier but still so electric. Still so  _ much _ . 

“Yuuri?” Viktor asks, his voice soft. “Will you fuck me?” 

“Yes,” Yuuri pants. “Yes.”

Viktor kisses the interior of Yuuri’s calf, his leg resting on Viktor’s shoulder. “One moment, my love,” he says. 

He gets up from the bed and goes to his luggage. Yuuri lays back on the bed, feels the sweat from his body and the zinging twitch of his muscles. It’s now that he realizes how absolutely, unbelievably  _ hard _ he is. 

It is almost like there is a separate body that is a part of him and not a part of him. This pulsing, charging, electric thing in him. He feels it like an aura hanging over himself, pressing almost against his pores, against his sweat. He feels that dizziness again. He swallows. 

“Yuuri?” Viktor asks, softly, sitting back down on the bed. “Yuuri, what do you need?”

Yuuri’s tongue feels heavy and sticky. His throat feels tight and strange. “I’m fine,” he says. “I’m fine, I promise. I’m fine.”

Viktor leans down low and kisses him. The feeling is so much, and it is so wildly, beautifully electric. 

“Yuuri?” Viktor asks. “I’d like to touch you again.”

Yuuri nods, tries to focus his eyes on Viktor’s blue eyes, his high cheekbones, his silver hair. 

“Could you drink some gatorade for me, Yuuri?” He asks. “Before I touch you?”

Yuuri nods. 

Viktor leaves and comes back again. Unscrews the bottle and helps Yuuri gulp the bottle down. It helps with the sticky feeling, the dizzy feeling. It helps.

Viktor presses his lips together, and says, “Have you ever...before?”

Yuuri swallows. 

He came close a couple times, in college.

He shakes his head. 

Viktor nods. “Okay,” he says. He pulls out a bottle. “Can I see your hand?”

Yuuri opens his right hand and Viktor pours some lube into it, slick and strange. 

Yuuri feels his face heat  ever so slightly more.

“Yuuri,” Viktor murmurs, his voice soft, “I need you to keep this warm for me, yes?”

Yuuri nods, dumbly, lets his body heat seep into the lube. 

Viktor smiles. “Very good,” he says. “How about we loosen me up before we put the condom on you, yes?”

Yuuri nods. Viktor leans back on the bed and reaches for his hole. He throws his head back and sighs and moans a little as Yuuri watches his body toss and throb and his hand move. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor pants, “Yuuri-- can you-- can I have your hand, Yuuri?”

Yuuri looks at his hand, in mute fascination, before offering it forward to Viktor. Viktor smiles brilliantly, and he says, “I need you to-- ah! Yes! Like that!”

Yuuri strokes Viktor’s hole, his slippery fingers stroking insistiently, gently at the puckered edge of his hole, slowly beginning to press, ever so slightly. Viktor’s breath catches and staggers out of him; Yuuri finds himself lost in the listening and lost in the work of touching, of asking, of inviting. 

Eventually, Viktor’s fingers find his and press him a little more firmly, and suddenly (but somehow not suddenly at all), Yuuri finds his fingers inside Viktor, inside the hot, tight, place in him, still working and moving and asking for looseness, for entrance. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, huffing, sighing, gasping. His breath presses against Yuuri, against his skin and his ears. 

“We’re really close,” Yuuri says. 

Viktor’s head is thrown back, his beautiful neck a column of white light, his collarbones rising and falling. 

“Yes,” Viktor says. Yuuri watches the action of the word travel in Viktor to broadcast itself to Yuuri upon the air. “Yes, Yuuri.”

Yuuri feels so stupid, not sure how to explain what he means. 

Viktor’s hand jacks his own cock a few times and Yuuri watches fascinated, his long fingered hand grasping his shaft, his blue eyes alternately wide and shut tight. Yuuri feels Viktor around his fingers. 

Viktor lets go of his own cock and pulls Yuuri away from his hole. “Let’s get you ready now,” he says, his chest still rising and falling dramatically, a gin-blossom of redness bloomed at his throat. 

He fumbles and grabs the condom from the sidetable and opens it carefully. 

“I’m clean,” Yuuri blurts, looking at it. 

Viktor smiles. Huffs a little. “Dearest, you don’t know where I’ve been,” he says. 

“Oh,” Yuuri says, “I-- do you--“

“I don’t have anything,” Viktor says. “But just to be safe, yes? Why tempt fate?”

Yuuri nods, and he feels the gesture shake its way into jittery shaking. 

Viktor takes the condom and sheathes it over Yuuri’s aching cock. Yuuri groans at the cool touch, at the considered slide downward and the grasping twist up. 

“Yes, Yuuri,” Viktor purrs. 

And time at this point seems to go  _ strange _ . 

One minute he’s painfully hard, kissing Viktor and the next minute Viktor is slowly straddling Yuuri’s hips, gradually sliding downward, and then he is rising and falling, as inexorably and as beautifully as his breath, his hips rocking, his body twitching and fluttering around him. 

Viktor cries music around Yuuri. Sings with his breath.

It’s so much. It overwhelms him, pulls tight and close around him unbelievably. His skin under his hands, his muscles around him, surrounding him, holding him. Viktor’s mouth and voice and body, Viktor’s skin, Viktor’s sweat, Viktor’s breath. Viktor’s breath so precious, a treasure, a gift.

Yuuri loves him. He loves him. He feels the shift and rock of his hips under his hands, the crook and curvature of his spine, the shape of his well-formed bones. The sticking of his hair with sweat, the flush of his blood. 

It’s so much, all so much, and then it’s everything, pressing against him, white-bright and insensible, impossible, too much and not enough. 

“Yuuri,” he hears, Viktor’s voice worried. He feels his hands holding his cheeks. “Yuuri, are you okay?”   
Yuuri opens his eyes and Viktor looks at him concerned, his blue eyes focused and intense. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, his thumbs swiping over Yuuri’s own cheeks, pulling away moisture. Tears. 

“Fuck,” Yuuri says, and as suddenly as the everything-ness came over him it drains away and the itching nausea resumes, joined by sudden, terrible shame. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Yuuri says. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He ruined it. He ruined Viktor’s sleep and he ruined his  plans and he ruined their time here in Budapest. Yuuri ruined it--  _ stupid _ Yuuri-- and he feels so awful, so guilty.

But Viktor keeps clearing Yuuri’s idiot tears away and he holds him even closer somehow. 

“Yuuri,” he murmurs, softly. “Yuuri, no, please. Please, don’t cry. There’s nothing to be sorry for. Please, my sunlight, don’t cry.”

But he can’t stop, it just pours out of him, a feedback loop of exhausted, anxious tears. The feeling over everything, the sensation of it, is too much. 

Yuuri is a failure who can’t even lose his virginity right.

Viktor holds him, close and warm. And he shushes and murmurs and hums, his voice a susurrating wave that flows over him gently. 

It’s so overwhelming, so scary, so much. 

And Viktor holds him, even though Yuuri ruined everything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hmm i guess this is three chaps not two


	3. Chapter 3

Viktor holds Yuuri for ages. Empires rise and fall; mountains shift; oceans drain and refill. In the time Viktor holds Yuuri, his tears slow and his breath goes steady and his fever slowly begins to fall. The light, outside their window, oh so slowly, begins to change. 

Viktor holds Yuuri for ages; it’s the most important thing he could imagine doing. A holy thing, asked by God. 

And after so long a time, Yuuri whispers, with his voice cracked, “Can I tell you a secret?”

Viktor nods. Swallows drily. “Yes,” he says. 

“You can’t tell,” Yuuri says. His hand grips Viktor’s arm tightly, his fingers starburst points of heavy pressure on the flesh of him. “Only Phichit knows, okay?”   
Viktor nods again. 

“It happened to me before,” Yuuri says. 

Viktor holds Yuuri. Lost in what he could do or say. 

Yuuri doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t offer a story or an explanation. Just the dry, awful truth that this has happened to him  _ twice _ now. 

It twists something awful inside Viktor to think that people would want to hurt Yuuri. Yuuri, who he loves more fully and truly and completely than he could ever love himself or anything or anyone. It makes something cruel open up in Viktor, something angry and ready to protect. 

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Yuuri says. “Please.”   
“I won’t,” Vitkor says. “I wouldn’t.”

“I want to go home,” Yuuri says, softly. 

“Okay,” Viktor says. “I can reschedule our flights.”

“You have your  _ skate _ ,” Yuuri says, his voice shattering. “Tomorrow-- you have to--”   
“It doesn’t matter,” Viktor says. “I want to go home with you.”

“Vitya,” Yuuri whines. “Please, I just want it to be  _ normal _ .”

Viktor holds Yuuri. 

“I don’t want you to be alone,” Viktor says. 

“I can wait,” Yuuri says. “Before going. We can leave like we planned. It’s okay.”

“I want what you want,” Viktor says. “And if you want to go home, we can go.”

Viktor holds Yuuri. Yuuri’s long, strong legs draping over the boundaries of Viktor’s arms to lay across the bed. His beautiful shoulders pulled inward, the rounded shapes of them curving toward his own, beautiful chest, pale and inviting Viktor to feel his heartbeat under his fingers. 

“I want to go  _ home _ ,” Yuuri says. 

“Okay,” Viktor says. “I have to make some calls.”

Yuuri doesn’t move. And Viktor doesn’t let him go. 

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says. “I didn’t mean to ruin everything. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t,” Viktor says, because it’s true. 

“You were supposed to be on a big  _ comeback _ ,” Yuuri says, his voice cracking. “Before the season.”

Viktor shifts his hold, pulling himself and Yuuri down so that they are lying on the bed. The blankets are still piled on the couch, but the warmth between them is enough. Viktor looks at Yuuri, at the way his brow twists to close his eyes, at the way his mouth pulls and presses into an awful, haunted expression. Viktor rests his hand on Yuuri’s cheek, strokes his thumb over his cheekbone, feels the soft skin there and wipes away his errant tears. 

“You’re much more important than that,” Viktor says. 

Yuuri shakes his head. 

Their legs are tangled together still. They are so close together, despite this distance that Yuuri somehow always manages to build back up. 

“Yuuri?” Viktor asks. “Can I tell you a secret?”   
Yuuri blinks and nods. His brown eyes are bloodshot and puffy. 

“The very most important thing I have done,” Viktor says, “is know you.”

Yuuri shakes his head. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, cupping his jaw. “If I could live my life without skating, without any of the medals or glory or fame….without Yakov or Yuri or Chris, if I could have been someone else and still known you, still loved you, still had you so  _ close _ to me, I would be.”

Yuuri shakes his head. 

“Maybe an anonymous computer repairman, in St. Petersburg,” VIktor says. “I’d see you on the television, and fall in love. No one could move like you Yuuri.” His hand drifts to his shoulder, strokes over the bone there. “Or maybe I’d be a photographer, and I’d be sent to snap pictures of you on some assignment-- maybe at the inn? And I’d fall in love with your soft laughter and smile and the way you look when you cook with your mother, standing beside the grill.”

“Viktor,” Yuuri murmurs. The kind of way he does when Viktor is being ridiculous. 

“Hmm,” Viktor says. “Maybe I go to college? And I’m quite good at it and we meet at a conference. Or maybe we just meet on the street. And I love you, because I love you and I can’t believe there’s a me that could exist and not love you.”

“I love you, Yuuri,” Viktor says. “The most important thing I can do is love you. The exhibition? This doesn’t matter. You do.”

Yuuri looks so weary as he looks at him. Exhausted. 

“Vitya,” Yuuri says. He says it just like himself. 

“We’ll go home,” Viktor says. “Okay?”

Yuuri looks at Viktor with an expression he can’t quite read. Something very serious and searching. 

“You were my first,” Yuuri says, softly. 

Viktor looks at him for a long time. “Did I do the wrong thing?” He asks.

“No,” Yuuri says. “The first time, I was by myself. I just remember that it hurt.” Yuuri bites his lip. “You didn’t hurt me.”

“I never want to hurt you,” Viktor says. “I know this is different from not hurting you but...I never want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” Yuuri says. “You didn’t.”

Viktor swallows. Studies Yuuri’s beautiful, round features and graceful, strong bones. 

“Do you feel okay?” He asks Yuuri.

“Tired,” he answers. “But okay.”

He reaches out and lays his hand on Viktor’s chest. Viktor loves his fingertips, his bitten nails, his soft skin. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice soft. 

Viktor smiles at him. Takes his hand gently in his own. Kisses his knuckles and fingertips. 

The sun slowly rises, and the light in the hotel room shifts. 

Yuuri’s eyes slowly flutter closed.

And Viktor watches him, before slowly falling asleep himself. 

They’ll go home. 

**Author's Note:**

> hey ya'll what's up


End file.
